


First And Foremost, Your Dearest Geralt

by burgerkhal



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Diary/Journal, Gen, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geraskier, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-22
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:35:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23966242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/burgerkhal/pseuds/burgerkhal
Summary: Jaskier and Geralt are travelling through Toussaint, and left alone, Jaskier finds a most precious book to read: the White Wolf's personal diary.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Renfri | Shrike, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Renfri | Shrike
Comments: 7
Kudos: 50





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yoprismo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yoprismo/gifts).



The promise of being alone inside when the weather was wonderfully sunny, proved more a pain than a respite. He actually enjoyed being around the witcher for inspiration, sour moods and all, which there were plenty of lately. Jaskier told himself it was of no importance as he paced up and down between the door and the downstairs tavern. He had begged for the single room with a terrace, paying out of pocket if it meant he was to be left to his own devices while Geralt sauntered off to complete a simple contract. The devices, according to witcher dearest were _“At the least alcohol, and at most an excess of food, alcohol and women, no doubt. Lock the door if you’re up to funny business, and remember my bed is off limits. We might share a bottle of Temerian ale once in a while, but never our women or our lice”._ Jaskier grimaced at the disrespect it implied. Besides, sourpuss Geralt was already riding out into the horizon before he could think of a counterattack.

Wandering off to the tavern, Jaskier thought it was a waste not to enjoy the local delicacies. How often did they visit this delightful duchy? He set off and ordered some cheese and fruit, enough for both Geralt and himself. Just as he was about to pounce back to the sunlit deck, a marvelous green glimmer caught his eye. He was immediately captured by that beautiful bottle behind the large man attending his nutritious needs. Ah! It was definitely a coveted treasure of Toussaint. A fine and rare Est Est, curated by an unknown master under Ravello's teachings, of which only a privileged few could distinguish it by the sediment it left at the bottom of the bottle: emerald dust. _"Please, please, pretty please let me buy it!"_ He begged, fully aware that the steward didn't know the immense value of a single sip. Cornered by an obviously false story of heartbreak, the steward called Frances accepted a measly twenty florens for something that, liquid alone, could buy Duchess Anna Henrietta's entire wardrobe. Alright, not all, but at least a dress or two.

Cheerful as sin, he brought the bottle and the platter of food upstairs, and nestled comfortably in a chair under the lilac branches of wisteria climbing up to the terrace. The camembert was creamy, the bread soft, and even the dried fruits had a spicy cinnamon touch that made him shiver with contentment. Jaskier was already stuffed before even trying the duck confit, which he was definitely leaving for Geralt. And now... to drink! But first, a book to read. He wasn't in the mood to compose and lacking good conversation, a page turning tome was the next best thing.

The bard scoured the space between his trunk and the door to find absolutely nothing of interest. How could he forget the Grimm Brother's Tales of Beauclair? Those Nilfgaardian's turned much of the duchy's surrounding reality into incredible fantasy. But, lo and behold! What was hiding under Geralt's pillows? He picked up the leather-bound book and sat down at the terrace again before opening up the first pages. The sheer delight that crossed Jaskier’s face upon understanding what was on his hands was too much to bear. A document so powerful, that by his god-given gift as a bard he should, and by all means he would, turn these pages into the sort of jigs and ballads that would make the Cintran court die in a fit of laughter (and goodness knows how hard that crowd was to please). Which is to say, he was holding himself together with immeasurable force from not laughing while realizing he was reading Geralt's, the mighty White Wolf, the Butcher of Blaviken’s personal diary log.

_"What if he left it here on purpose? NAAAHH… Surely, I could keep taking a peek? It's a secret between you and me, little journal."_ And on its merry way his fingers kept flicking, showering these secrets (and himself) in sunlight whilst drinking the first nice cup of Est Est. And what a pair! To drink Touissant wine and reading this made for a perfect meal. Was he betraying Geralt or was he getting to know him better? Both. Was he able to stop? No. He kept turning page after page, completely absorbed in the ink scratches as if interpreting a tome of utmost importance, internally annotating and footnoting all the details that related to the poised, secretive witcher. Another sip, another turn. He thanked the endurance that he’d built up after so many years, but the wine was definitely making him double the giggles with immense pleasure. He thoroughly enjoyed this Lambert character and Geralt's witcherling adventures. Oh! And whenever Geralt talked of trolls, those simpletons... Alas, he was looking for meatier gossip. So, in he dived, wading through pages that were sometimes splattered with what he guessed could be wine stains, sometimes could be a beast’s blood. Darling Geralt could do better with his cleanliness habits, he admitted. After all, how many times had Jaskier prodded him after a fight to get into a damn tub of suds? Sidetracked by his own thoughts, the bard decided to concentrate on an entry already, just a question of picking up the pace, hopefully before the witcher arrived and caught him in the midst of his read.

* * *

_Kikimora guts be damned! I wish after slaying a beast the villagers would not stare at me, for it hardens my heart. The way they do only reinforces that I’ve known loneliness like no other. I do not wish to part from its comforts, yet I find myself leading Roach into disgusting marshes and danger. I wonder if she understands my ranting…_

* * *

She definitely understood Geralt on another level… How that horse managed to follow him was worthy of questioning an animal’s reasoning and loyalty, because even Jaskier was unable to follow the man into the "jaws of destiny” when destiny meant a monster’s den or getting slightly dirty. Anyway, continue reading the entry, shall we?

* * *

_Once there was a time I wouldn’t have to beg for work or stay in a place for long, yet it seems Blaviken and its outskirts I’ll call home for a day too many. Small towns put me on edge, where morals haven’t decayed enough, nor prejudice lost its hold against foreigners or mutants. And now, dealing with this arsehole mage who’s ensnared me with the guise of “a lesser evil”. I do need coin, not so urgently as to kill a supposedly cursed princess. I wager a few contracts in the surroundings will spare me from meddling in his affairs. One conversation was enough to exhaust me. For fuck’s sake! Who does he think he is anyway? This rat-faced Stregobor stinks of old-man piss and cheap wine. I’ve known him for a while, and the mage’s reputation is not one I’m fond of. This illusion he carries in his tower of isolation? As much as a nude woman would entice a red-blooded male, I will never find his antics with which he passes time alone as entertainment._

_Or is it a pang of jealousy? The ability to conjure a vision, so perfect and serene, that the vision itself is alive and willing. A disgusting mutant should never… could never come close to such beautiful creatures as the ones from Stregobor’s imagination. Just remembering how my first kill went, fresh out of Kaer Morhen, shames me. A white-haired mess, covered in a stranger’s vomit, drowning out the screaming with the darkness and silence inside my head. Vesemir had taught me well, but reality reinforced the lesson:_

_Always a witcher, never a hero._

_My second kill didn't turn me cold, it only gutted me how little I was allowed to react. Strange how each time I fail a contract or even the rare times I succeed, I still get the distinct feeling I'm not welcome wherever I go. I just helped you! Why am I not granted the decency to carry on my way without being spat on? I had to learn not to care early on, yet the scars I carry on to this day. If it isn't the blackened eyes from the intake of potions, it's the swiftness of movements that scare others away. If that turns them away, they'd shit their pants at the mere sight of a higher vampire._

* * *

_Morning has arrived once again, and I've definitely slept better. Blaviken's forest provided a more comfortable bed than whatever I could afford at the nearest Prancing Pony Inn, or whatever the hell it was called. After strongly discussing affairs with Stregobor, the alderman was nowhere to be found yesterday. So that will be my duty today. There are some settlements nearby, I'm sure to find odd contracts here and there. I'll have a pick before returning tonight._

* * *

_I regret drinking myself into a stupor to even think about kissing Shrike. No, Renfri... Renfri was her true name. She came to me late at night, and the way she looked at me. This outsider... I recognized myself in her and decided to let her go. Stregobor still hadn't convinced me of her supposed evils. And how could I? She was there, horror and beauty, outshined brightly by vivid desires to just be human. Accepted. And i blew it all, damned it all to hell._

_I still don't know if what I did was right. I slept with her, let her do as she pleased. Caress my chest as I took off her coat that pretty little pin she carried, my hands on her thighs. I closed my eyes, not because I didn't want to see, but because I didn't feel anything except confusion. What did it matter anymore? I've become a monster. Something I promised myself I would never. I didn't love her, but I certainly didn't hate her either. Yet, there she lay, dying in my arms. Cut by her own blade, yet driven by my own impulse. Try as I might to think she wanted to die, it was I that gave the final blow._

_What was a simple lay, turned to be a ruse so the princess could escape and goad Stregobor. She would either slowly kill every breathing being in Blaviken, or he could fall on his knees and beg for a final mercy before dying. That lesser evil bullshit. Quickly rushing to the market yielded no results, the locals had started to run away at my sight, only to later meet the dismembered bodies of Shrike's merry gang of bandits. They witnessed from afar as Renfri ran towards me. They knew, they heard... They saw! Why was I being rained down with stones? I was guilty no matter what. Even I feel that way. I can't excuse myself..._

_And then Stregobor. His filthy words, penetrating the despair I was trying hard to dissolve. Renfri and I were just test subjects, experiments and animals to be looked at from afar, only observed upon closely after dead. I never realized when I was up until a tiny voice yelled at me to leave. My sword was one scratch from opening up the mage's throat. And then the stoning stirred me awake. I carried her pin with me, to vanish between the rocks pelting me._

_Both of my choice and the people who reside there... Blaviken, I'm never to return._

* * *

Of course, Jaskier deeply regrets his first choice of entry. Geralt didn't dwell on emotions, and had told him only once, completely shit-faced at that, what the deal was behind the epithet "Butcher of Blaviken". He had never spoken to him the way he wrote about it, never in such detail and with dirty remorse behind every word. He felt distraught reading about it, could feel an unclear void separating him from his friend through the years, as if he didn't know him at all. Curiosity was getting the better part of him, until Jaskier heard the strutting of that all-too familiar chestnut horse down the road. Quick as lighting, quiet as a mouse, he raced to Geralt’s bed and slipped the diary under his pillow. Did he even put it under the right one? Forget about it now, Jaskier... and ran back to the room’s sunny balcony, gulping down the last of his cup as the witcher stepped into the remaining strands of daylight. He shone like the sun!

_“Oh, Jaskier! Candles, wine and the leftovers of a fine duck confit? Should’ve told me I was getting treated princely tonight.”_ Geralt, damn him. Jaskier faked a smile and invited the witcher to sit down next to him, a little sadness dripping from the ache he felt. Regardless, Geralt was back, happy and so Jaskier quickly grabbed the bottle of Est Est, served the man and himself a cup, while the witcher entertained the bard with a story worth a fistful of florens, but no trophy to carry on the back of the mare. Geralt had been out all day, and even his pale skin looked a bit sun-kissed. He chattered away about an incredible lake he found where he could walk on the water, believe it or not! _"He's never been so talkative,"_ thought the bard _"and being so near to Beauclair treats both of us so well."_ Jaskier wished they could stay there longer, without worries on their backs or in front of them.

Night was already cooling the air, with stars bright as white wildfires and the moon... The moon's silver traced the outline of Geralt's lips as he spoke, lighter, softer, to not wake-up the neighboring guests. Although both were laughing (and what a precious sound was Geralt's laughter) recounting that time they met in Posada when the bard stuffed his pants with bread, they were also tired and retiring to the alcove was more and more enticing. A quick wash after and Geralt would settle in, as Jaskier had already refreshed earlier.

_"Hey, Geralt..."_ Jaskier whispered while dipping slowly into his own bed, lost in his thoughts. Flush with alcohol he just dove right in. Hmmm, the linens smelled of lavender and he sunk deeper into them, hugging a pillow tightly.

_"Jaskier?"_

_"Sorry, what was I saying?"_ The bard didn't realize a full minute of silence had passed between them.

_"Not much, you were about to tell me something. Did the wine tire you out? I'm going to sleep now."_

_"Geralt, do you suppose we could visit Rivia someday?"_ The witcher smiled as much as a corpse, but the sight of his lips going upwards gave Jaskier enough comfort to erase the uneasy feeling that had been resting on his chest and finally fell into a deep slumber.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier sneakily keeps reading Geralt's diary.  
> Geralt thinks Jaskier is plain bored and takes him on a contract.

Sleep. That powerful impulse to remain partially dead for a few hours, hallucinate complete absurdities in the likes of laying in bed with Geralt whilst kissing those parched lips, and still remain alive and well after it's all said and done. What was that dream now? Either the Est Est from the previous evening was too good to be believed, or he really did sleep with Geralt last night. Doubt it, yet Jaskier still tasted the lavender oil the witcher sometimes rubbed on his neck before sleeping. He tapped with closed eyes and bare hands around him to discover with relief that he was in his bed (still), and the warmth on his skin was the sun making it's way through the horizon. Did Jaskier really have a thing for the witcher that remained hidden for so many years? Or did it awaken after digging into his secrets? It was a dream, get over it. But sweet Melitele's grace, how he wished to make some of it true, at least to quench his curiosity. He was unconsciously still patting at his bed, and bemoaning his bad luck of acquiring a hangover when he was interrupted.

_"I see prince charming is awake. Did the pea under the mattress finally crack your backside or did you have a nightmare, bard?"_ Geralt taunted with a wicked smile that only said he was extremely entertained with Jaskier's bed hair or he was keeping secrets.

_"No yelling Geralt! My head hurts enough. Do tell me though: do I really look that awful when I wake up? Because I can see why I'm kicked out immediately after dawn from so many places..."_ Oversharing Jaskier, don't do it.

_"Remember that time you asked me about your singing?"_ he continued with the sarcastic remarks. Of course he remembers, it was a painful and pitiful experience. The dread of possibly losing his voice. Geralt unable to help. No comment on the finale of the endeavour. He respected Yennefer and what she stood for in Geralt's life, but she wasn't the ideal person in his mind to be bound to. He too had been with unsavory bedfellows.

Breakfast was served before the witcher and the smell was too tempting to laze about. The bard got up with a banging in his head, scratched his bottom, and not so much sat, but stumbled down his seat to a platter of hearty eggs and by the side, cantaloup garnish? Strange choice, but the sweetness when chewing on the fruit made him exhale and recover his will to live. He asked Geralt if he knew of a remedy to calm down this thirst, this pain, this dizziness and throbbing headache.

_"Jaskier, are you getting too old for drinking?"_

_"Shut up already! Give me something, ANYTHING! I don't care if it's a drowner's spleen at this point."_

_"You know, I might go after another contract for the entire day, or might even return until tomorrow. I'll send word ahead of me."_ The witcher kept talking while he extracted a small vial of a pearly-blue liquid, taking care to pour a single drop of mystery into Jaskier's cup of juice.  _"Make sure to ask for dinner again, but change up the meal. I can't stomach the confit again, the rest is up to your hedonistic wisdom."_ The smirk on Geralt's face was enough to make him suspicious of whatever he was about to try, but suffer he must if he was to survive.

_"Eeeughh. This is bitter and disgusting. What the hell is this, Geralt?!"_

_"That is a secret I'm taking to the grave. Witcher's code and all."_ Geralt picked up his swords, crossed the room as quickly as his feet allowed, promptly closing the door behind him. As the quick tapping of his boots vanished, Jaskier wished for a moment for the witcher to stay, but he hadn't picked up any coin from the previous contract. He downed the rest of the poisoned juice, which now carried a sweet aftertaste? Witchcraft! It was hard to place the flavor, but the sticky sugar pressed on his lips made him wish again for Geralt's presence. His careless, musical fingers caressing in the present moment to be exchanged for the callousness of Geralt's, softly brushing his lips and Jaskier eventually retaliating with a bite to that cheeky smile. To wish, and keep wishing...

* * *

As long as he was in the vicinity of Beauclair Port he could enjoy the sights. Taking his lute with him, he strummed a few notes wherever he sat, maybe for a song or two to gather some coin, and wandered about picking up delectable gossip. Jaskier was fond of getting stranded, winding through places without a clear intention or purpose and discover something new everywhere he went. And this is how he found a cozy bakery between two alleys and picked a small treat for the night. He was familiar with macarons, but he imagined Geralt wouldn't like the excess of sugar. The flavor tended to be too sweet but that’s the softness he imagined it would be kissing the witcher.

Near the outskirts of the closest vineyard, a villager returning towards the inn was kind enough to offer a ride on the back of his cart, although topped with hay, in exchange for a troubadour's music along the way. Singing The Fishmonger's Wife (the lesser known version of The Fishmonger's Daughter) they set out under the sun at a leisurely pace, arriving shortly before the sun set. The Cockatrice's innkeeper welcomed him, and Jaskier ordered the same food as the day before,  _"Except, please change the confit for pheasant roast, and add some herbal butter."_

The witcher hadn't sent word along, so this meant another opportunity! After all, he had left early after dawn to catch a ruby-eyed slizard, or so was told by some locals, and Jaskier would be alone again for the entire evening or night. The inkeeper handed him the food at the door, and additionally some salves for the witcher's burnt skin, he knew how it was killing a slizard from Baron Milton de Peyrac-Peyran.

The innkeeper was outdoing himself with these meals! The pheasant was fragrant, creamy and so tender it melted in Jaskier's mouth, and the bread which was soaking in butter truly magnificent! After the last grim entry, this time Jaskier decided to skim for lighter reading until he found something entertaining. Ah, perfect! Bickering on about monsters, Eskel, Lambert and Vesemir. He covered the remaining food under a glass dome and settled on Geralt's bed, belly down, kicking off his shoes and swinging his legs like a damsel.

* * *

_Eskel is trying, once again, to pull the sharpest scales I've seen in a lifetime out of Lambert's ass. The shrieking and yowling can only be compared to a crying brat, but that's what he gets for trying to court certain death (and a disguised water nymph). It caught him by surprise, after failing to notice that a nude woman bathing along a lake is nothing more than fantasy. He surely tried conversing with it, and I can almost picture him unclothing, getting in the lake and realizing his mistake as the nymph opened her jaws to rip him apart. I'm certain Eskel was the one to hear him screaming from the road, clutching his pants to cover his body, but with an ass covered in slime and red as blood. I know of someone who would've shared the same fate under the same circumstances._

_"She looked like as pretty as your favorite witch, Geralt. Don't tell me you wouldn't have done the same!" the yelping was useless, and yes Yenn did look like an angry nymph when pissed. Fangs, claws, tangled hair... it was all her. "I would never, you skewered Lamb! I know not to approach or caress a woman unless they ask for it first. And no woman is stupid as to bathe outdoors when we're in the middle of freezing winter!" Eskel was in fits of laughter._

_Vesemir must be away picking up herbs, because Lambert is trying to keep the beating to his self-esteem under cover. He's already patched up, but for someone his age, he sure is pulling a tantrum in his bed. Both Eskel and I can't stop laughing every time a softened 'owwwie' escapes from his corner, and the more he tries to cover his face with a pillow, the cackling only makes him madder and drives us to tears._

_It's been years since I've settled in Kaer Morhen for the winter, and spending time with these idle fools has made me remember where I feel at home. Although I wish to visit Rivia, I think this is where I should finally settle with a friend. Or her. I still haven't decided who I can tolerate best, and Yennefer has proven my patience short yet again. Lambert's pouting has reminded me of her. Alas, the chance she had to apologize for her tantrums and her lack of understanding led me back here, to a keep so abandoned and unkempt, she'd "rather stay in a zeugl's pit than clean up after you useless witchers". I do admit the four of us are a walking calamity when under the same roof, but I was short of camaraderie for so long and one person alone can't calm down the nerves I've been feeling._

_When I told Eskel how Lambert pouted like a sorceress, the little shit pricked up his ears and threw the mug he had near his bed. The crash was enough to call Vesemir's attention, who had just arrived from doing exactly what I guessed: picking up mandrake root and moleyarrow. Damned luck was on Lambert's side (or bottom), because he had to endure Vesemir's scolding and being slathered in a numbing paste while airing both cheeks. Vesemir kept telling us to shut our traps, but it was inevitable to roll down howling until our guts hurt._

* * *

_You'd think we had learned our lesson after last week's misadventures with the nymph. Now it was Eskel and myself crying how Old Speartip threw rocks at us. Bless the ancient troll, he still lives and still throws hard like a trebuchet. No mechanical contraption of war would be as efficient as the old mountain beast. Scratched and with what could spell as a broken leg, Eskel carried me on his back all the way from the Circle of Elements to the keep. Nothing that can't be fixed in a few weeks, but it has confined me to rest unwillingly. Deserved for poking at danger. Lambert's sarcasm was the cherry to top the fruit cake, and with the wind knocked out of me when Vesemir checked for displaced bones, all I was able to hear was the cretin's chortle._

_He'll laugh much less tomorrow when my aard sign sends snowballs flying flat towards his face._

* * *

The inkeeper knocked at the door with a message for Jaskier, removing him from the vision of Geralt being perfectly normal, and signalling the witcher was to arrive in a few hours. How long had he been up reading? With the candle by the bedside he could fairly guess that it was past midnight, and amused as he was, his eyes would expire any second now.  _"What is a poet without eyes to appreciate beauty?"_ , he told himself and tucked the diary where he had found it before, passed on to his bed and promptly fell asleep, dreaming cheerful melodies to go along with what he had read.

* * *

The room was in absolute darkness when Geralt arrived, and with the help of his cat-slit eyes saw that the bard was fast asleep with the ridiculous smile he always afforded the imaginary women he kept telling him about. He hadn't even removed his clothing for comfort. Geralt carried himself to the circular wooden table where the food lay, and next to it a note, a pair of small linen pouches and unknown object that smelled pleasantly. He sat down and ate a bit of the cold pheasant. It wasn't bad and should be fixed by fickly abusing his igni sign. He opened up the note, and Jaskier's fine penmanship informed him of the salves, and that the tiny package under them was for him. He opened the waxed paper wrapped with red ribbon, took a bite of the colorful circle. It was impossibly sweet, and he tasted heavily of eggs, sugar and almonds encompassing a creamy center between two wafers. Geralt enjoyed the taste and couldn't help but think Jaskier was boring himself to death at the Cockatrice, and decided on a whim.

_"I'm taking you with me tomorrow,"_ he whispered to the dozing bard _"I'm sure the creature isn't as dangerous as they say. Besides, you need the entertainment."_ Mid-sleep the man stretched his fingers, probably composing a melody, and the mere thought made Geralt smile. He got up to straighten a strand of hair on Jaskier's forehead. It was good to have his company these days.

* * *

The piercing daylight awoke Jaskier to find Geralt still on the bed next to his. Although his two swords were at the ready, every muscle on the witcher's body was relaxed. What was he still doing here?

_"Good morning to the princess, Geralt of Rivia!"_ he said yawning and rubbing his eyes. The artistic profession demanded more beauty sleep, but curiosity commanded to ask _"Why aren't you out hunting some beastie?"_

_"I was waiting for His Royal Highness to wake up. This time you're adventuring out into the wilds. Hurry up and put these clothes on."_ The witcher handed, or rather threw onto him, a less than flattering outfit.

_"Geralt, this is a frankly hideous potato sack. Why..."_

_"Because, Jaskier, the eyes of a spriggan are well accustomed to following vibrant patterns, and prancing about like a peacock isn't going to benefit us whatsoever."_

_"Prancing? Do I really...? Eh, better not to discuss it."_

_"That's right, no discussion. Besides, wouldn't want the spriggan to confuse you for a pretty flower and pick you out for a forest wife."_ That wicked smile, again. Jaskier was trying his best to hide the flushing on his cheeks, and rushed putting on the pale flaxen coat to hide his face if only for a few seconds. After a few minutes he was ready, and under the advice of Geralt, he toned down the usual volume of perfume he put on, grabbed his lute and followed along with the famed White Wolf. A spriggan! He had never seen one for himself, and learned as he was as a former Baron, Jaskier had only seen an etching or two in ancient lore books. _"Do you think we'll go deep into a glade and smoke it out? I'm sure one of your magic finger things will help us! What was it called again?"_

_"Signs, bard. Specifically for this case, the igni."_ Jaskier was feigning ignorance. As if he hadn't already written a ballad around these forest terrors, but Geralt's voice was pleasing, even for a few seconds. They had started traveling north after crossing the river, and traversed next to a couple of mills. The witcher kept his mare at a slow gait, so Jaskier walked without having to catch his breath, admiring plains filled to the brim with sunflowers. Some of them so golden that made the poet keep thinking of the witcher's eyes. A stroke of clarity hit Jaskier, recognizing instantly where they had to pass sooner or later. The notion of visiting Castel Ravello, home of Est Est, was enough to put a jump in his step, dreaming of the fantastic wine strains he could already taste, purple stains on his lips and tipsy blush on his face. Mayhap they would also set camp under the stars for the night? But he knew Geralt. Work first, fun later. He began tapping on his lute and broke out in song for a few seconds.

_"A flower in May_

_Has led me astray_

_But for all her caress_

_I left her a mess"_

_"Not bad, bard."_ Geralt wasn't prone to comment on his lyrics. The tone was genuine, and a compliment as far as he could achieve from someone that from afar seemed cold. For all those rumours of witchers being unable to feel human emotion, they were just that: rumours. Geralt stopped briefly in the middle of the road, extended his gloved hand towards Jaskier with a brief twitch in his fingers, like he didn't know what to do with them. " _Come here and hop on, it's easier."_ With a gentle pull he helped Jaskier climb onto the mare. Clinging tightly to Geralt's chest he buried his senses: getting lost in the deep smell of his leather armor, the smell of lavender on the witcher's hair and neck. Bliss. Jaskier was afraid of holding on too hard, but he found himself strengthening his grip gently.

_"Careful, you don't want to kill a witcher before their time."_ He set Roach to a canter, rushing through the small paradise that was infinite vineyards and sunflower patches stretching before the road. Sunlight searing their backs, yet having fresh air brush their faces. It wouldn't take long before they arrived at the spot the spriggan recently attacked a poor farmer. 

_"Fulfilling the contract shouldn't take long. Keep to a spot, preferably under a tree. The spriggan won't attack you there, understood?"_ Excitement was pouring into his body and Jaskier couldn't help but keep asking questions. Why won't it attack me? How will you fight against it? Are you drinking potions? What do those potions do? He barreled through them like lightning and Geralt answered. Slowly, patiently he resolved all doubts the bard could ever have until he was shrouded in complete, utter silence. Impossible? No. Just, not likely to happen. Jaskier had too much in his mind, and treating him with proper kindness was a weapon nobody knew how to use. Geralt finally understood it after many years touring together.

The witcher guided his horse to a small clearing. A cairn and a small sycamore lay in the midst of it. Jaskier sat down by the pile of rocks, setting his lute to his right, and observed Geralt's rituals of preparation. He was fascinated with the meticulous arrangement of his tools. Setting the small chest that contained his potions, the witcher pulled four vials one by one. The first glinted like amber and dripped thick like honey down Geralt's mouth. After opened, the second one filled the air with the smell of rain. The following was dark like obsydian. The last vial looked so plain, transparent like water, but Jaskier swore he could hear little silver bells ringing when the witcher was about to ingest it. The bard hadn't paid any attention to Geralt's face, until the man opened his eyes to reveal the darkness of an eclipse and a complexion that was starting to turn ivory white. The contrast made Jaskier nervous, however he let Geralt stand up on his own, and watched as he settled on the brim of the forest, laying down his silver sword on the ground.

The bard kept his ears pointed to attention behind the small rock cairn. A small rustle of leaves, the wind passing through, made him a little jumpy. But all he could figure out under the shadows beyond the glade was the figure of the witcher kneeling motionless. He was perfectly quiet and rigid in posture, yet felt menacing. The air around him quieted to complete stillness, when a flock of birds darted out of the forest. Quickly getting up, Geralt pulled his silver sword in a flash and struck a quick motion with his hands that tossed a flame at a shadow that was approaching in gigantic strides.

One moment the spriggan jumped in front of Geralt, appearing out of thin air, but the witcher successfully pirouetted out of the way, throwing his sword on the beast with force. The metallic ring of both strengths fighting each otherwas intimadating and equally poetic. It vaguely imitated a dance around a maypole. Geralt furiously jumping around the spriggan, and as soon as it reappeared in front of him, gnarled roots clawed at him from the underground, making the witcher strike down with both igni and his sword. The sparks that flew after each blow landed lighted the shade momentarily and even if he was at a distance, Jaskier knew he was witnessing immemorial tradition: a hunter and the hunted, flickering in and out of his vision.

The spriggan threatened once or twice to rip through Geralt, but at the last second he jumped away, flittering about until he could avoid the roots springing underneath him. The grand beast finally was struck down like a tree under an axe, and the sound it made resonated deeply through the forest. It was despair incarnate, and Jaskier felt sad the creature was gone. Relief washed over him once he saw the witcher stand up, sweat falling profusely from his brow that he kept swiping at it with his gloves. Killing the spriggan was fortunately a quick affair for Geralt.

He saw him tear at something and stand quietly beside the tangled wood for a moment, then Geralt yelled that it was over from where he stood near the fell spriggan. The witcher was taking care to walk with eyes closed, Jaskier noticed. Possessing finely attuned hearing, he knew the witcher could rely on sound alone to guide him. What he was completely unaware of was that his heartbeat, which threatening to jump out of his chest, was the constant guiding the witcher back to the clearing. The moment he sat down, Geralt could feel the blood in the bard start to flow slower, until it rested at a normal pace for a human.

_"How about we stay here until the effects of the potions fade away?_ " the witcher suggested quietly.

Tenderly, the poet laid out a rough piece of fabric under the shade of the lone sycamore, sat down and patted next to him. The witcher followed suit.

_"I thought you wouldn't ask. They say the stars wait patiently to be watched on nights like these, Geralt."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys, i'm not really used to writing long chapters. but let me know how you like them?  
> i'll probably end up compressing the fic chapters later on. for now, enjoy the second chapter!


	3. Chapter 3

In the dark of night, the breeze flowing through the small clearing in the woods lended immense peace to both the bard and the witcher. It was late, so returning to the Cockatrice Inn was out of the question. The spriggan's fight had been short and intense, yet Geralt remained patching the minor wounds and cuts that the beast inflicted on his skin. Their counterparts in other parts of the world were known to use crows as allies. Spriggans just opted for a slower approach that was nevertheless lethal to the unassuming peasant tending to a vineyard. The mixtures he was applying on himself spread their fragrance in the air. The witcher sighed, deeply, heavy, tired, and turned his eyes to the sky. He could finally open them without light scratching at his dilated pupils.

_"Jaskier, thank you for coming along."_

_"Oh, it was nothing. You'd surely need a poet to narrate your accounts among the wealthy of Toussaint."_

The bard unbuttoned his doublet, extending his lengthy arms in a stretch any feline would envy. Finally, he placed both hands behind his neck and stared at the same skies with pleasant satisfaction. Roach was a few feet away, clearly enjoying the thick grass around them. There was a trail of green extermination wherever she set her gaze on. Propping himself on one shoulder, he looked at Geralt.

_"I already have the words for my next epic. Want to hear it?"_

_"Not now, Jaskier. Let's just lie down. In silence, if it pleases you."_

Geralt was unsure if what he said would hurt Jaskier's feelings. He was prone to flights of exaggeration, nothing like the time they dealt with the djinn. But he was always so full of wilful, bright energy, wasn't he? Not a survival instinct like Geralt had, but a sheer force to shine brighter around any confrontation that came his way. The bard started carelessly murmuring a slow beat in his mouth, the air vibrating through his nose, chained into a meaningless mutter. Geralt could hear Jaskier's heartbeat, drumming along with the melody, steady and serene. Could almost touch the sound through the half-opened doublet and shirt, Jaskier's chest glistening silver under the moonlight. Almost an enchantment, the noise of life inside the bard made Geralt fall asleep soon enough. And Jaskier, he kept humming but stole glances towards the witcher and smiled to himself. He couldn't grasp that the usually bitter man beside him was as vibrant as the best Oxenfurt poet.

Most defiant of sleep, he poked the campfire and dragged two objects out of his leather satchel. First, a flask filled to the top with raspberry juice, absolutely diluted in Beauclair white. Secondly, the diary. It was madness to leave it behind! No other prying eyes deserved the intimacies of the White Wolf, not if they kept pelting him with rocks and insults. He noticed he was quickly becoming very defensive of Geralt, or was he always? Friends for over a decade, who could know? He glanced again over his shoulder and cracked open on a random page. The flicker of the flames submerged him deep into the writing.

* * *

_Spring has arrived too swift for my taste. Some monsters might be hibernating still, but it only means the rest will come prowling around villages for easy victims. Farmers have enough dealing with wolves. Might as well start polishing swords and practice with Eskel on the grounds. He did focus his studies on beasts found in the wilderness, after all. While Lambert and I went about on human roads, Eskel drove trolls out of caves on a more regular basis and mastered oils for hunting much quicker than us. We seldom had time for frivolities, or hunger would strike us down. Yet he thrived on scarcity, and found space to learn knitting. A witcher that knits. Ha! Doesn't sound bad at all. Lambert would refuse to take up any self indulgent endeavour, but I could do something. I'll have plenty of hours to consider it. Perhaps next winter I'll come back to Kaer Morhen a new person._

_I'm gonna miss this place. It's breaking down in pieces half of the time, but each year we make an effort to bring a part of the keep together and back to life. Yes, I'll miss the bickering between Vesemir and Lambert even. But I find myself rushed to hit the dust roads and find the damned fool that follows me around like a pup. Who knew I'd miss him instead of Yennefer. Can't even miss that fucking smell that used to smother out the world. I can't find myself missing lilac and gooseberries, since the last time we clashed the sorceress thought it a pretty parting gift to stab me in the back. Of all things that could set off one of her tantrums... I wouldn't let her ride on Roach. The mare was already nervous having her ten strides behind. No use wondering how either would have reacted to Yenn's touching and the subsequent bolting at full speed to get the discomfort off her back. Not that her murderous rage doesn't surprise me. But stabbing, Yennefer?_

_I found a sprout of peonies and buttercups on the road back to the keep. It can be interpreted as an omen of abundance, but I'm preparing myself to return here earlier. Perhaps I could bring him over this time. His weight could easily be carried by Roach and I'm fine on foot. Yes, I trust Roach to carry the idiot as long as he's not chirping all the time._

* * *

That was about the last line he remembered reading, trying to remember all the ways and times the witcher had been used by sorceresses as a mere pawn or tool, and mostly as a sex toy. Anyway, who was this 'him' that Geralt kept alluding to? It seemed to refer to someone that was versed in singing. Jaskier seethed a little and hoped it better not be Valdo Marx. But really, what were the chances? That so-called "poet of the masses" Valdo valued the vague attention of his adoring public more than the thrill of new inspiration or adventure. Impossible! Jaskier shivered just at the thought of his sworn enemy near Geralt. He laughed it off while suffocating the embers, and drifted back to sleep next to the witcher. Here in the wilds they had to huddle close for warmth. So was there any harm in closing the distance between them? Jaskier refused to be so brash, instead sleeping back against back, a warm blanket between both.

Dawn's first light forced itself though the canopy of trees, waking Jaskier abruptly. He could no longer feel the heat of another body next to him. It wasn't late late, as there was still a wispy mist washing over the grass. Had he slept in? Would Geralt really leave him in a scary forest by himself? A rustle behind him prompts him to turn. Relief washes over him as he sees Roach.

_"Girl, it's so good to see you! I've never been so glad to see the back end of a horse in my life."_

Roach neighs almost knowingly, and continues ripping through the pasture. A few minutes drift away, and as he settles for eating an apple stashed deep within his satchel, Geralt arrives carrying a pair of rabbits. The witcher skinned them quite easily, while Jaskier prepared the fire, prodding for the time they'd be back at the inn. After all, he was "itching all over and urgently desired to be soothed in a tub, cleansed by a lovely maiden." Geralt chuckled but the bard could not figure out exactly why. Did cleanliness seem a joke to him? It certainly did by the stink emanating from him so often. In fact, he was due for a bath as soon as they were back in civilization.

Morning had rushed after they set back on their trail, and arriving at the Cockatrice was a quick gallop away. Jaskier enjoyed the ride back, in spite of the stink, and jokingly promised he'd be the first to push Geralt into fresh water and scrub the filth off him, too bad for him his favorite sorceress wasn't around to fulfill her duty.

* * *

_There's no denying our affair with the elves of Dol Blathanna wrecked my nerves. Not only did I risk myself, but the idiot bard I just met in Posada as well. Wonderful fellow if you manage to make him shut up. At first I thought he was merely curious about my swords, but he continued blathering on about something. I must confess I stopped paying attention very early in the conversation. He then followed me, in spite of all warnings and a swift punch to the stomach. What could ever make him cease? I was supposed to stop a devil, or so the peasants told us. Fortunately they paid in advance. Chance blessed me on rare occasions, and knowing devils to be part of fairy tales, I dragged the bard behind me, an unwelcome at the time follower._

_Turned out anything with horns is called a devil in these whereabouts, and a nasty sylvan's attitude is impossible to deal with good humor. By Melitele, it fought dirtier than a Temerian officer and bit harder than an angry sorceress. Although he was sentient, it had done something very stupid. Humans, the invading species according to elves, are very particular with their territory. Unaccepting of everything that fell out of rank. Beasts of magic were one of the particularities they desired to see far away, in fact better not to see them at all. Mutants were another, still close to humans, but strange enough to be poked from afar. And as a bridge between humans and monsters, it fell upon mutants as myself to fix their cowardly troubles. But the damned sylvan, Torque his name, was about to submit when I vanished from consciousness._

_Both the bard and I ended up being attacked and taken to Filavandrel. I knew elves to be proud and vile towards humans, but I never imagined theft to be their most passionate endeavor. Tied in a cave wasn't nice at all. The hits we took under our elven friends was also surprising. I expected them somehow, so I was willing to offer my neck to their swords. Our bags were torn in front of us, scavenged for goods. Roach was nowhere to be seen, so I assumed she had escaped. What I did not expect was the mangy bard having a fight in him. Beating a witcher to a meaty grind I welcomed, but now I worried for a charge I didn't ask for. The bard spat out words in a familiar sounding tongue, but one I didn't learn and soon the sylvan was begging mercy for us. Wit, fortune and compassion for the sylvan lended us saving grace. I had told Vesemir that forgiving a monster would save me one day, and what a story it will be next time I see the mountains of Kaedwen._

_After a few grievances repaired, we set off on the trail back to Posada. It's a pity the elves gifted the bard with a new lute. But I say that since he played wonderfully and spoke Elder to them, they didn't see him as an invader, but a interested party. And if elves were known for their pride, they were also keen on seeming generous. I do have to say that this new presence has changed my opinions on being alone. Jaskier is a worthy companion, even if he drives me mad at times._

* * *

He was moved to be mentioned for once in this diary, but his thoughts and reading were interrupted when the innkeeper knocked on the door. Ecstatic with the possibility of a delightful lunch, the bard opened up, to find the man empty handed and sort of ashamed.

_"Yes?"_

_"Master witcher requires your help, sir Jaskier."_

_"What ever for? I'm in the middle of something. Did he really ask for me?_

_"Yes, specifically for you. No damsel, no food, only yourself and a pint of Erveluce."_

_"Tell him I'm coming."_

Jaskier was frankly appalled. Erveluce in pints? No, Geralt. Another fine Toussaint creation, it must be served in cups. Not drunkards' pints, to be squandered like bastard Cidarian ale. It was sort of endearing though, Geralt not being exactly cultured, but refusing to participate in the norm. This strangeness was what initially brought Jaskier to sit next to him in Posada and start adventuring along the White Wolf. Reading his diary was another adventure in itself, and he wished to know more details. Asking Geralt was out of the question, so reading must continue and the further he read, the more the witcher struck him as a closeted, angst-ridden child. One moment terribly emotional, the next he was as good as any philosopher questioning the boundaries of existence. Yet, what gripped Jaskier most tightly, were entries of some vague or love interest Geralt had kept hidden for years. Sure, there was Yennefer, but in all entries Geralt referred to her by name directly or made some gross metaphor about lilac and gooseberries collapsing his senses _(yuck!)_. But he constantly spoke of a man with no name, and Jaskier was dying to know who it was.

He knocked on the door, hope puffed out to reveal the mystery man. He did not expect the witcher to open the door without a shred of cloth to cover sweet decency. A potential scream evaporated into a squeal of sorts.

_"Geralt, cover yourself please!"_

_"It's not like you haven't rubbed chamomile on my lovely bottom, bard. Fuck, there's nothing to be ashamed of."_

_"An ass covered in chamomile is not the same as seeing the front! Just do me that one favor, I beg you."_

_"So scandalized for a poet! You're blushing like a maiden, Jaskier. Come on, I'll throw down a towel, but please help me with my hair. It's a mess I can't undo. Please?"_

_"Dammit Geralt, alright."_

Geralt wasn't already covered when Jaskier turned around. Instead, he was back in the wooden tub, with a brush nonchalantly dangling from his left hand. He approached, still shocked and took the brush with a pouty pull. Geralt did have beautiful, soft hair. It was so often caked in mud and the sweat of several days, that it could hardly be salvaged on any given day. The mop on the witcher's head could scarcely be called hair. Tangled, knots that demanded a cut, and Jaskier was sure he could find something dead if he scratched enough. But Jaskier was patient, and that virtue exactly was required now.

_"What's wrong? You're taking your time."_

_"Nothing, I'm just assessing the probabilities of a bald witcher. I don't think I've ever sen one."_

_"Jaskier, don't you dare."_

_"Trust me on this."_

With lightning reflexes, and all his bravery the bard pushed Geralt's head under the surface, because he knew how he would resist. Did those eyes make him afraid of drowning like cats were? Geralt gasped for breath, all dramatic as Jaskier took him out and with slender fingers started scrubbing his head tirelessly. The rhythm of his fingertips slowed down after a few minutes as the dirt washed off. The witcher was almost relaxing, almost. The fear of a pair of scissors was the only thing keeping him alert. But instead of a cut, Jaskier took a creamy oil, rubbed his head again, and meticulously took strands of his silver mane, brushing slowly until they were bright again. The bard could work miracles whenever he set himself to it.

It took forever to finish. But at the end, the bard left Geralt to his own devices in regards of drying up those silver locks. He went back to their room and awaited dinner. It never arrived to his knowledge, for he fell deeply asleep the moment he nested in his bedsheets. It hadn't been an exhausting riding along with Geralt, but vain bards make for princes in disguise, and a soft bed was all that Jaskier had hoped for the last day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Jaskier is THAT oblivious to flirting here.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a gift for a friend who's been very supportive. Thank you so much!
> 
> I'm not sure where this fic is gonna go, the length, but writing and reading it has been entertaining at the least and therapeutic to a point. I love these two together, so please enjoy!


End file.
